


The horizon, and then some.

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:05:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When all was said and done and Central stopped burning at last, Catalina grabbed Ross’s hand, threw her arm around the woman’s shoulders, and gestured at the horizon. “Everything that the light touches,” she sang in a raspy voice born of late-night cigarettes at Madame Christmas’s and early-morning drinks with Havoc, “is our queendom. You know that female cats, right, they’re called queens? ‘Cause they’re the right queens over those yowling toms and jeans and heymans, I can tell ya that right now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The horizon, and then some.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "Screw you for getting me on board this ship, Geecer. Hit me up with some more Becky/Maria fluff, would'ja?"
> 
> Obviously, set post-Promised Day. Obviously, this isn't exactly the fluff you were looking for, so I'll write you a different version later, I swear. [salutes]
> 
> More FMA femslash needs to exist. Or, as I like to call it, f/fma. Ba dum tsh.

When all was said and done and Central stopped burning at last, Catalina grabbed Ross’s hand, threw her arm around the woman’s shoulders, and gestured at the horizon. “Everything that the light touches,” she sang in a raspy voice born of late-night cigarettes at Madame Christmas’s and early-morning drinks with Havoc, “is our queendom. You know that female cats, right, they’re called queens? ‘Cause they’re the right queens over those yowling toms and jeans and heymans, I can tell ya that right now.”

Ross glanced up at the line between land and sky faintly brimming with a light about to spill over the surface in waves of spun gold. In comparison the remaining paperwork, the lengthy lists of constantly changing inventory tabulations following the destruction, the gruesome reports of the confirmed dead and the pending wounded and the to-be-court-martialed traitors, felt like scratchy, cheap straw. And the constant clicking of the clock ticktocking how much work she had to do had left her exhausted, drained, tired, the sort of weariness that settles deep within the bones as though weighing down the marrow with a lead that trapped her limbs to the floor and settled a heaviness in the pit of her stomach that kept her from sitting up or even lifting her head to the light. Damn it, she’d returned from Xing for home and hearth, not for destruction and death.

And here was Catalina, promising her the entire horizon and then some. The horizon, the greatest eternity, that one could never reach, stripped off from the end of the world, forged into an unbreakable link in a divine chain, and slid around the ring finger of her left hand.

“You’re babbling,” said Ross quietly. A week of overtime on two hours of sleep had tempered the fire that normally blazed in her chest and flared to her fingertips, but her dark eyes remained sharp and alert. “And you haven’t had enough sleep. This is the same as getting married while drunk, Becca.”

“You,” Catalina responded, quitting her arm and falling back upon one knee between her thighs in the tight space between the chair and the desk, “have a stick shoved _so far_ up your asshole that I can see the leaves poking out right there.”

“I haven’t even said yes. Yet you already put the ring on my finger.” Ross curled her fingers, feeling the shape and coolness of the thin gold band. “It’s as if you won’t let me say no.”

Catalina winked. “ _Are_ you gonna say no?”

“No. I mean, yes. Wait, either way I’d be saying . . .” Abruptly she found herself breaking down in laughter, all of the exhaustion and grief and pain almost spontaneously, illogically converting into shaking shoulders and peals of mirth, of relief, of something a little bit like happiness, and the laughter felt _good_ and _right_ in that exact shade of a moment, frozen and then melted.

“So, you gonna marry me or what, Miss Maria?”

Ross wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “I think that you and I should take a long nap.” At the sight of Catalina’s positively wounded expression, she added, “And then you can ask me again. I swear.”

Still carrying on as though hurt, Catalina began to unroll the spare sleeping bags brought in for those working around-the-clock after the cataclysm. “You’d better say yes, then,” she grumbled, a faint smile lurking at the curve of her lips.

Ross smirked. Her voice sweet, she affected the timbre of a blushing bride: “I do.”

(And to both of their delights, she did.)

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt: "Screw you for getting me on board this ship, Geecer. Hit me up with some more Becky/Maria fluff, would'ja? Give me some Becky proposing if you're looking for what to write."


End file.
